And then I heard, “Here, let me help you. You need two people for that.”

Behind me, a boy with curly brown hair offered a hand. He looked extremely tall, but that was because he was standing a step above me. When he came down, he was only a couple of inches taller than me. Droopy, kind eyes. The kind that look tired in a cute way. He took one end of the glow stick while I held the plastic fastener, and when he pushed it in, his thumb pressed into my wrist.

“There,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said back.

I was going to introduce myself, do more than just stand there and give the tile floor a dumb smile, but the bathroom freed up. So I went inside. When I came out, he was gone, so I went back upstairs.

I rejoined Jahan and Giovanni and Rocco on the dance floor. I noticed glow stick bathroom boy sitting at a small table by the bar.

“Who’s that?” I asked Jahan over the music; it was poppy and Italian, and everyone was singing along.

“That’s Valerio,” Jahan said. “He’s Francesco’s cousin. I think he’s a student or something in Rome. Looks like he’s working the drink ticket booth.” He prodded me with his elbow. “Are you interested, Amir?”

I didn’t say anything, but I did decide I needed a drink.

My heart was beating fast, again, just like in the basement, as I walked up to the drinks booth. He, Valerio—who had not introduced himself to me yet, and for all I knew now, maybe wasn’t flirting in the basement but genuinely just wanted to help me put my glow stick on—was standing in front of a small table with a metal cash box. He, Valerio—the first boy I would ever make a move on in my life, since technically Jackson had approached me—was talking to an extremely attractive Italian girl. He, Valerio—descendant of Julius Caesar and Michelangelo and Al Pacino and—

All right, you get the picture. I was nervous. There was a lot going through my head.

But then Valerio did something drastic, something that would relieve all the fear swirling in my head: He looked away from the intensely spray-tanned Italian girl, looked over at me, and smiled.

Valerio ripped a red ticket from the ticket wheel and held it under the table. His eyes flickered downward. The girl laughed and said something in Italian, glancing over at me. It struck me that they were both waiting for me to take the ticket.

I shook my head and took it. At the bar, I ordered an Aperol spritz, which tasted refreshingly sweet.

Someone tapped my shoulder. “Hello, bathroom boy.”

I turned around, but Valerio had slunk around next to me at the bar. He barely had an Italian accent. “Thanks for the f-free drink,” I said.

“It is my pleasure,” he said, and okay, now he had an accent. Or was he trying really hard to sound like he didn’t have one?